My Name is Red

Memory is a complicated thing, relative to truth, but not its twin ~Barbara Kingsolver

Truth: My mother, her hands folded in her lap. They are bleeding all over her white dress. What a friend we have in Jesus. All our sins and grief to bear. What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer. His car’s not in the parking lot. We’ve called his house. There are tiny bruises up and down my arms. I am afraid they will see. Maura, do you know where he is? No. Do you? No. Your mother is dying, Maura, now tell us the truth. I don’t know. But where is the preacher? He said he was coming

Dream: My mother kicked a hole in the wall. A shoe-sized hole, like when our dog Jambo tried to eat the spaghetti off the wall and chewed off a chunk of wall along with spaghetti. I laughed. Why? Because she smashed her finger with a hammer while trying to nail a bookshelf into her wall. Goddamn-good-for-nothing-son-of-a-bitch. Why did I laugh? Because my mother’s shoes were the orangy red color of greasy tomato sauce and the wall was white.

Dream: Easter Sunday. Red Dress, puffed sleeves, white socks. Shosha’s is blue, the light blue of a robin’s egg. I had wanted blue. Don’t touch my dress. Your dress is ugly. Why would I want to touch that old thing? My skin between my mother’s fingers, the back of my arm. Shh. But she started it. One more word and you’ll be sorry, do you hear me? Yes, ma’am. I hear.

Dream: Third grade. Waiting outside Mrs. Porter’s classroom on the cold linoleum. My father has forgotten to pick me up and there is no one inside the school except Mrs. Porter with the blue hair that used to be red, the red of hair that isn’t really red at all, and the janitor who was said to be eight feet tall. I cannot stop crying. It’s okay, Maura. He says he’s on his way. He’ll be here in five minutes so you can stop crying now. She says MOR-uh instead of MAR-uh, and I know that she does not understand.

Dream: Sunday School, sucking on my bottom lip. In the corner by the window where I can see the parking lot. Old Ford pickups and clean white Buick LaSabers. On my knees, thinking about what I have done. Driving the nails deeper into the open hands of Christ. I am pretending that I have been locked in a closet like the little orphans in Annie before they find the vent. Or do they find the vent? This is what happens when we lie. We turn red and hang our heads in shame.